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History, beaten empty and dry
brings a warning I cannot carry out
And I love you but it’s not enough to hold onto
screaming with no release until
my throat is sore and I have swallowed all our memories
but I am not full.

Dreams are tangled in your hair, shining
from the rims of your glasses
I see myself,
a blessing and a curse I am to keep
stuck in a bottle shattered by truth--
I am awake and I cannot see you when I try
to hear your voice, gravel
under my bear feet but so lovely
like a memory of summer.

You are so plain but I am lit up inside, flickering
like a flame
and its wax is running down.
I won’t love you forever but I’ll try to capture you
in my head
while we are still here, together
and kiss you between your eyes
in a memory that I conceived
but was never born.
I miss the confusion
of who had
cigarette breath
when we kissed,
or who’s pack was who’s,
but what I miss the most
is the thought of
killing myself with
the one I love.
                                 MJB
#3 in the brevity series.

If anyone would like to be a part of the (-X) movement, message me on here or email me at mitchjburke@hotmail.com, spread the word!
 Mar 2016 Christopher Black
Onoma
As the moon
undergoes phases
of darkness...
it turns both cheeks.
Becoming
fully enlightened
by the sun.
[A prose poem]

I see a palm reaching out for me, from the pitch black.
     I try to sleep and close my eyes, but I still see this palm, trying to cover my face or scratch the skin it hates– I close my eyes and I still see it.
I know where this palm came from.
     I know it from the time the backdrop was not dark, but a horrid party at a lonesome house where I had too many shots. I know this palm will try to take whatever it wants, and it’ll crook its fingers and slide wherever it pleases, without caring to come back to my face when the tears roll down; it does not care to treat them, it does not care to wipe them. It does not care.
     Its been more than a year now, and still I go to sleep and think of hands. Of the word “no”, and how useless it is, just like trying to get some good sleep now. I close my eyes and try to forgive every one of those fingers.
My words are but a shooting star
To be seen in all its glory
But as shooting stars fade in an instant
So do my words to be read once
Then fade into obscurity
 Mar 2016 Christopher Black
Torin
I was seven
Sitting in a sandbox
Playing with words

And a kid would scream
"Tag, you're it"
And I would bleed
Because I was

I was drunk
Delivering my daily diatribe
About symbolism, and feeling, and energy, and

Love

And the cop would pull me over
Because I was driving in two lanes
Talking to a ghost
Who couldn't understand

I told him
"I've been waiting for you,
And I didn't even know it"

Mr authority who I deplore
Was inspired by the poet
He let me go
Just like I did before


And later I thought
How senseless it really was
To be sensible
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